The Haunting
by Ink On Paper
Summary: And you will never walk alone . . . . Tag to Baltimore. Tiva-ish.


**A/N: After the worse case of writer's block I think I've ever had, I think I've finally kicked it back into high gear. So let's get on with this thing, shall we? This was written to get back some of that TZ dynamic that has been woefully lacking of late. . . . Much love, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

**Spoiler-ish for Baltimore.**

"She is still not answering her phone," she acknowledges from the doorway, appraising him carefully.

"She's busy," he defends, watching his very still and very silent phone, now resting benignly on the counter. He hadn't heard the bathroom door swing open, but he hears the lock click shut now, and braces himself for the interrogation that's to come.

Only she doesn't say anything.

He lifts his head, eyes meeting hers in the mirror as she hovers near the door, one shoulder pressed casually against the tiled wall. She just watches him, studies his guarded face and too bright eyes via the reflection because he keeps his back resolutely to her. And after several heartbeats of just _staring, _his voice shatters the deafening silence:

"We've been over this before, Ziva . . . . This is the men's room."

"I am aware," she replies smoothly, leaning up against the tiled wall.

"What are you doing here?" he demands warily, and they both ignore the catch in voice as he turns to face her. "What do you want?"

She scrutinizes him silently, letting his question fester for several pounding heartbeats before she replies, slowly, "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," he asserts, turning back toward the mirror with his head bowed. He grips the edge of the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles are white and she isn't convinced for an instant that he's even remotely fine. His reply comes too quick, too easily, and neither of them believes it.

"No, you aren't," she argues gently, taking a step closer to him.

"Oh? Well, then, please enlighten me, Agent David, as to why you deem me un-fine." And he's hiding again, taking cover behind sarcasm and anger and throwing up every wall he has to keep her away.

But she's not going anywhere.

"Your partner just died," she informs him and the bluntness of her words are cushioned by the concern in her eyes. "And that is not fine."

"He wasn't my partner," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyebrows draw together, the creases in his forehead deepening.

"He was your friend."

"I hadn't spoken to him in years."

She shakes her head, stepping forward again, "He was still your friend."

"Friends don't lie to each other, Ziva." And he takes a sharp breath, hearing the words echo outside his mouth, and it's like he's trying to inhale them back.

But there isn't any going back now.

He opens his eyes and looks at her reflection in the mirror where she stands a few feet shy of his shoulder. He half expects her to leave, but she rarely does what he wants her to, so why start now? Instead, she doesn't even appear remotely upset by this admission, just nods thoughtfully, benignly, as thoughts pass by her eyes rapidly. He doesn't release his breath until she speaks, and when she does, her voice is no different than it had been a minute earlier. "True," she allows, "But we have lied to each other, Tony. And we are still . . . . friends, yes?"

"Yeah."

"You would have gone to see him, had you have gotten his message. You wouldn't have ignored him, Tony," and she's right, but therein lies the crux of the matter.

"I wasn't there, Ziva," he whispers, "I _didn't_ have my phone, I _didn't_ get his message. I left that bridge burned and he's dead. I didn't get to talk to him and, maybe, if I had, he'd still be alive."

She stays quiet for several heartbeats as his words settle in and then echoes her sudden revelation with, "You are blaming yourself." His silence confirms this and suddenly, she's standing directly behind him, and he can feel the warmth emanating off her and smell the cucumber of her shampoo. "Do not do this, Tony," she warns, asks, pleads. "There was nothing you could have done. Raimey would have killed him regardless –had you have spoken with Price before then, Raimey would have killed you too."

"You don't know that; I could have saved him."

"Perhaps," she refutes gently, "But you don't know that you could have saved him."

"He died alone," and, again, the words are out into the air before he can even register what he's saying. He hears Ziva's breath catch as she recognizes what he's said and the ghosts settle in the room with them.

She wets her lips, subconsciously, glancing away from the mirror. "It wasn't your fault, Tony."

He whirls around and it startles her into flinching and he half regrets the sudden movement. "I-"

But she recovers quickly and interrupts him before he can even formulate his sentence:

"You will not die alone, Tony."

"You don't know that-"

"When I was held captive in Somalia, I knew I would die alone. And I was wrong."

"You didn't die," he points out, staring down at her, her face inches from his.

"No, I didn't . . . . But, Tony, my point is that I was not alone. I was never alone. And you, you are not alone, either," she reaches up, her palm pressing against his cheek, cradling his face. And something inside him shifts and breaks and comes together.

"Thank you," he whispers and his phone suddenly goes off, vibrating across the countertop, the ringtone a harsh interruption in the moment. Her eyes glance away from him briefly, looking in the general direction of the sinks, but Tony doesn't move, doesn't even seem remotely concerned with answering.

"Are you-"

But he shakes his head, eyes not wavering from her, murmuring, "Just leave it."


End file.
